The café sat on the corner like it had always been there, stubbornly unchanged while the gallery across the street grew sharper edges and better lighting. Same chipped tile floor. Same bent wire chairs that bit into the backs of thighs if you stayed too long. The smell of burnt espresso and citrus cleaner layered together in a way that felt intimate only if you'd learned to associate it with survival.
Galathea had chosen it deliberately.
It was close enough to Artemis to justify the stop, far enough from her apartment to feel neutral. A place where nothing asked anything of her -- no whispers from frames, no security cameras pretending not to watch.
She was halfway through a coffee she didn't particularly want when the weight arrived.
Not the sound. Not the sight.
The pressure of being known.
"Gala."
She didn't look up right away. She let the name land, let it sit between them like a coin flipped onto a table. Heads or tails. Stay or leave.
She finished her sip, set the cup down carefully, and then lifted her gaze.
Marcus Hale stood there with the same shoulders she remembered -- sloped, apologetic, as if the world had already bruised him before it ever got a chance to ask permission. His jacket was too thin for the evening chill. His smile was practiced in the way people learned when they'd needed things from others for a long time.
"Don't call me that," Galathea said calmly.
Marcus laughed, a quick sound meant to disarm. "Right. Sorry. Galathea. It's been a while."
"Yes," she agreed. "It has."
He slid into the chair across from her without asking. The metal scraped loudly against tile. A few heads turned, then turned away again. The café specialized in not noticing things.
Marcus folded his hands together, fingers roughened at the knuckles. "I heard you were back in town."
"I never left."
"Back," he repeated, gesturing vaguely toward the windows, the gallery beyond. "Like -- back back."
Galathea's eyes flicked briefly toward Artemis. The building loomed across the street, all glass and money and quiet authority. It didn't react. It never did when she wasn't inside it.
"People hear a lot of things," she said.
Marcus leaned forward. "I saw your name. On the donor board. Well -- your department. Still. That's you."
Galathea resisted the urge to sigh. "What do you want, Marcus?"
He blinked, clearly thrown by the directness. "Wow. You always did get straight to it."
"I have a meeting," she lied easily. "And ten minutes left for this conversation."
Marcus's mouth tightened, then smoothed back into something gentler. "I just thought… we should catch up."
"We are caught up," Galathea replied. "You know where I work. I know you still order the cheapest thing on the menu and pretend it's a preference."
His smile faltered. "You don't have to be like that."
"There's no other way I am," she said.
He shifted, one leg hooking awkwardly around the chair rung. "I've been doing freelance installs. Small galleries. Private collections. It's rough out there."
"I'm aware," Galathea said. "I live in the world."
Marcus laughed again, softer this time. "You always make it sound like a personal choice."
Her eyes sharpened. "What are you asking for?"
He hesitated just long enough to make it obvious. "I could use a connection. Just -- an introduction. Someone in acquisitions, maybe. Or security. I know you've got access now."
There it was.
Galathea leaned back in her chair, studying him the way she studied mislabeled crates -- patient, precise, already certain of the contents. "You didn't come to catch up."
Marcus spread his hands. "I came because we know each other."
"We knew each other," she corrected.
He frowned. "Isn't that the same thing?"
"No," Galathea said. "It's the difference between memory and entitlement."
Marcus bristled. "That's not fair."
"It's accurate." Galathea retorted.
He leaned in again, lowering his voice as if secrecy would make the ask more reasonable. "We used to help each other. You remember that, right? Late nights, ramen, sharing space because rent was impossible."
Galathea did remember. She remembered counting coins. Remembered sleeping in her coat. Remembered how kindness had blurred into expectation without her noticing until it was too late.
"That wasn't help," she said quietly. "That was proximity."
Marcus's jaw clenched. "You're acting like I'm some kind of parasite."
"I'm acting like someone who learned," Galathea replied.
Around them, the café hummed. Milk steamed. Cups clinked. The world kept happening, indifferent to the small negotiation unfolding at the corner table.
Marcus exhaled sharply. "You've changed."
"Yes," Galathea said. "On purpose."
He studied her face, as if looking for the version of her that had once said maybe instead of no. "You don't owe me anything," he said finally, the words weighted with accusation.
"I agree," Galathea replied.
Silence stretched. It felt heavier than it should have, as if gravity itself had leaned in to listen.
Across the street, Cael Alexander stood partially obscured by the reflection in a gallery window. He hadn't intended to stop. He told himself that, even as he did. The café was visible from the sidewalk, the corner table framed neatly through glass.
He saw Marcus lean forward. Saw Galathea's posture remain unchanged.
He did not intervene.
Inside the café, Marcus tried one last angle. "I just thought -- you know -- maybe you'd remember where you came from."
Galathea's mouth curved, not into a smile but into something sharper. "I remember exactly where I came from," she said. "That's why I'm not going back."
She reached for her bag, standing smoothly. No rush. No apology. She pulled a few bills from her wallet and set them beneath her cup.
Marcus looked up at her, startled. "You're just going to walk away?"
"Yes." She did not even nod.
"Gala -- I --" Marcus tried to reach for her.
She paused, meeting his eyes for the last time. "Don't use that name again."
His shoulders slumped, the weight of the refusal finally settling in. "You used to be nicer."
Galathea shouldered her bag. "I used to be tired."
She turned and walked out, the bell over the café door chiming softly behind her. The evening air felt cooler, cleaner. The street hummed with traffic and distant voices.
Cael straightened as she approached, expression unreadable. He hadn't crossed the street. He hadn't stepped closer. He had simply watched. Sleeves rolled, tattoos exposed, top buttons popped open, scent of woody and musky citrus and blackcurrant lingered.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
Galathea glanced at her boss, who, she just realized, was standing there, and nodded once. "Yes." Then started to walk towards the entrance of Artemis.
She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to.
Cael glanced toward the café, then back at Galathea, whose hair seem to sway as she moved. Something in his gaze shifted -- he wasn't sure if he was being possessive, or maybe jealous. But for sure he was being observant. He was recalibrating.
He followed Galathea to the entrance.
"You didn't hesitate," he spoke from behind her.
Galathea adjusted her grip on her bag. "How would you know? And why would I?" She slowed her pace for him to catch up.
He studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. "Lip reading, and right."
They walked together entering Artemis, the building waiting in its usual silent way.
Galathea and Cael, they have a kind of relationship built on years of working together in close proximity. They are more than comfortable with each other. It is a usual scene to see them together in the building, especially with Galathea being the only one who can talk to Cael with no honorifics -- something that Cael finds 'intriguing.'
They entered through the revolving door. Like clockwork, Galathea handed her ID to Cael, who tapped it on the turn style reader. Of course, that earned Galathea shifty glances from those waiting in the queue. But what can they do? She's with the boss. Well, not with-with but walking-in-with.
Galathea slowed her pace until Cael was back beside her, handing her her ID.
"Thanks." She muttered. "About the --"
If not for the sideway glances she got from the receptionist, she would've talked freely. She needed to talk to Cael about -- things. Static things. Talking things. Dream-invading things.
"Ugh." she rolled her eyes at the sight of the receptionist stealing glances at them. The 'news' that Cael and her walked in together again reached her workstation before she got there.
Considering where she was a few minutes ago and her irritation towards so many side glances she got just from her walk between the revolving door to the reception area, Cael knew better than to tease her or start a banter. He just said in a low voice, "Take it easy today, sweetheart."
Galathea lingered to look at him for more than a second, wanting to ask about the painting now that she's ready to ask.
Cael sensed she wanted to talk, so he bid, "Talk later." He gave her a smile and turned to the elevator that only he could access.
'Good. Work first.' Galathea thought.
As she paced through the corridor leading to her workspace, Galathea's mind went back to today's encounter with Marcus. She felt something loosen inside her -- not relief, exactly, but clarity.
The past had weight. She knew that.
She just didn't carry it anymore.
She didn't miss who she used to be.
"Good riddance!" She muttered.
As she set her bag down on her table and woke her computer, her phone buzzed.
'1 message: Pit Boss'
Galathea felt a twinge of disappointment at Cael's message.
'Can't talk this afternoon, sweetheart. Meeting. I'll be back after nightshift if you're still here.'
Galathea scoffed, mouthing the words 'if you're still here' mockingly.